


Reopened wounds

by killerweasel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-19 00:52:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killerweasel/pseuds/killerweasel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anger fades, forgiveness takes longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reopened wounds

Title: Reopened wounds  
Fandom: _Sherlock_  
Characters: John, Sherlock, Mycroft/Lestrade  
Word Count: 985  
Rating: PG  
A/N: AU after _203 The Reichenbach Fall_

It wasn’t until after John’s fist collided with Sherlock’s nose that he noticed the bruise on the other man’s cheekbone and the black eye. Clearly he wasn’t the first person tonight to find out Sherlock wasn’t really dead. Sherlock dropped to his knees, swearing under his breath and clutching his face. John could see blood oozing out from between Sherlock’s fingers and was pretty sure he’d just broken the other man’s nose.

He couldn’t deal with this right now. He had to get out of the flat. If he didn’t, he was pretty sure he might do something worse than just punch Sherlock in the face. John headed towards the door, grabbing his coat along the way. Sherlock made no effort to stop him.

John picked a direction and started walking. He had no clear idea of where he was going. He just wanted to put as much distance between himself and the flat as possible. At least it was a nice night for a walk.

He’d gone a few blocks when a familiar black car pulled up beside him. John took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He wasn’t being kidnapped; Mycroft had stopped doing that after Sherlock’s death. This was an invitation. John decided his night couldn’t possibly get any worse and got inside.

John was actually relieved when car brought him to the Diogenes Club. He didn’t want to discuss Sherlock’s sudden reappearance with Mycroft. They could have one of those wonderful silent conversations instead. John was getting rather good at those. Sure, he was no Holmes, but he could almost hold his own against Mycroft.

A man wearing muffled shoes led John to Mycroft’s private room. John nodded politely at any of the men who made eye contact. Most of them were used to his presence at this point and forgiven his overly loud first visit to the club.

John wasn’t surprised to find Lestrade sitting next to Mycroft behind the desk. The two had become very close over the last year. John never asked them what the nature of their relationship was, mainly because he figured it wasn’t any of his business. If they wanted him to know, they’d say something. He knew Sherlock would figure it out in about five seconds, angering everyone in the process.

Mycroft was studying the bruises on Lestrade’s knuckles. His own hand was also sporting a bruise. John knew who the other two wounds on Sherlock’s face had come from now. They looked up at him at the same time and it became very clear neither of them had known Sherlock was alive until tonight. He was willing to bet his own face had a similar expression. Mycroft poured each of them a scotch. The liquid in the glass was higher than usual, but John didn’t mind.

Though they could actually talk in the room, none of them said a word. They did exchange more than a few looks, most of which lead to the clenching of hands into fists and shaking of heads.

They’d grieved, they’d mourned, they’d eventually moved on the best they could from Sherlock’s death, but now... it was as if someone had torn open and almost healed wound. This was a different type of pain. Most of it was anger mixed with betrayal. It was raw and made John want to lash out at anyone or anything that was stupid enough to get near him right now.

John knew Mycroft would have done everything in his power to help his brother out, had Sherlock asked him to (and maybe even if he hadn’t). Lestrade had very nearly lost his job defending Sherlock. He’d gone head to head with his superiors on case after case, showing there was no way in hell Sherlock could have been behind the crimes involved. As for John, he’d defended Sherlock to the press, to the news, to the internet, making damn sure everyone knew the man Sherlock really was and not the fraud they’d portrayed in the media.

After finishing his drink, John stood up. As much as he’d love to get incredibly drunk, he had a not actually dead consulting detective back home to deal with. He had a much better chance of trying to understand why Sherlock had done what he did when he was still slightly sober. John gave Mycroft and Lestrade a smile before walking out.

The black car was waiting and it took him back to Baker Street. John could see Sherlock watching out the window with an expression that could have been worry on his face. It vanished when his eyes landed on John. They stared at one another for a moment and then John began to walk towards the door.

Once inside, John shrugged off his coat, kicked off his shoes, and motioned for Sherlock to follow him into the loo so he could take proper care of Sherlock’s injuries. Sherlock was soon perched on the toilet while John went to work. John was relieved to discover he hadn’t broken Sherlock’s nose.

Later, after tea had been drunk and the two of them were sitting on the couch watching crap telly, Sherlock began to speak about why he had faked his death and what he’d been doing before he came back. He would pause to answer John’s questions before continuing where he left off. By the time he finished, the sun was starting to come up.

Sherlock looked as exhausted as John felt. He slowly tilted his body until his head was resting on John’s shoulder. John brought his hand up and gently ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. It wasn’t long before Sherlock fell asleep. While John hadn’t completely forgiven Sherlock for what he’d done, it might be some time before that would happen, the anger he’d felt before was finally fading away. John drifted off with his fingers still tangled in Sherlock’s hair.


End file.
